“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Izzy said. “My father never told me. I don’t know any more than was printed in the magazine.”
“Not Cressida and Ulric, either? Oh, I can’t stand it that they haven’t reunited. Do they marry and have babies, the way I always hoped and dreamed?”
“If you hoped and dreamed it, then perhaps they did. I know readers were disappointed that the stories are unfinished. But to me, there’s a certain beauty to the fact that Ulric was left hanging, literally. This way, the characters can have as many happy endings as readers can imagine.”
Hopefully, that would put the matter to rest.
“Oh, but it’s just not enough.” Miss Pelham sighed. “What about that eunuch? I had suspicions about him. I don’t suppose Sir Henry ever—”
“For the love of God. Leave her be.”
This irritable outburst took everyone by surprise.
Because it came from the duke.
Ransom stood in the doorway. And Izzy regretted using up the words “grandeur” and “splendor” on the dining room because now she was all out of words to describe how he looked.
Well, perhaps there was one word left.
Magnificent.
Clean-shaven, freshly bathed, and turned out in a black tailcoat that fit him snug as poured ink. And he must have done it all unaided, judging by the shocked expression Duncan wore as he rose to his feet. Poor fellow probably worried he’d been replaced in his duties.
But Izzy didn’t believe that was the case, judging by the inadvisable color of the duke’s waistcoat and the fresh, paper-thin scrape along his jaw.
It was silly, perhaps. But Izzy found that thin red line even more brave and endearing than the scar slashed across his brow.
“It’s him,” Abigail whispered across the table. “The duke.”
“I know,” Izzy murmured back.
“Why did he come down? Do you think he fancies you?”
Izzy pinched the bridge of her nose. Goodness. Why didn’t this girl understand that Ransom could hear everything she said?
“He must fancy you,” Abigail whispered on. “Wouldn’t that be exciting? You could make him believe in romance and lo—”
The duke cleared his throat.
“Your Grace,” Duncan said. “Forgive me. We weren’t expecting—”
“Sit down.” Ransom found the chair at the head of the table and drew it out. “I’m not here to make you work.”
“Would you like some soup?” Abigail motioned to the serving maid, one of the newly hired servants.
“Just wine. I’m not here to eat, either.”
Silence fell as they all pondered the question no one dared to ask aloud. If he wasn’t here to eat or be served . . . why was he here at all?
“Give Miss Goodnight a rest about Morbidia.” He took a seat. “Surely there’s something else to talk about.”
“It’s all right,” Izzy said, trying to contain the damage to the evening’s pleasant atmosphere. “Really. I don’t mind.”
“I mind on your behalf.”
Ah. So that’s why he’d come to dinner. To stand up for her. To be her surly, ill-mannered champion. If it wouldn’t have spoiled her lovely soup, Izzy could have burst into tears.
He tapped his fork against the plate. “I thought tonight’s dinner was meant to be a holiday.”
“It is a holiday, Your Grace,” Abigail answered.
“Then I would like a holiday from fairy stories. Unless the knights and maidens tumble into bed and do carnal things to each other, I couldn’t care less.”
Abigail’s cheeks turned a subtle shade of pink. “Your Grace. They do nothing of the sort.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
“There you have it, Miss Pelham,” Izzy said. “The duke is not interested.”
“That’s because the duke doesn’t know what he’s missing. He needs to experience the stories themselves. We can read from them after dinner.”
The serving maid removed the soup and placed a platter in front of the duke. She whisked away a silver dome to reveal a beautifully browned rack of lamb.